


Poppies and Partners

by BreadedAndFried



Category: CountryHumans, Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Flower meanings, Fluff, Gen, Genderless depictions of countries, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Post-World War I, Pre-World War II, a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29439693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreadedAndFried/pseuds/BreadedAndFried
Summary: - In which friends draw closer -About a year and a half ago, a friend of mine made me aware of a certain collection of volumes, which was created by the Polish people and addressed to the US, as a thanks from the Polish people, to the United States and their advocacy during the first World War era. The "Polish Declaration of Admiration and Friendship" immediately had brightened my day, and I highly recommend looking into it if you have a spare moment. It inspired this work and this is supposed to partake sometime afterwards.Also sorry for the terrible title B)
Relationships: Poland/United States (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Poppies and Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Text inside brackets '[ ]' is in another language other than English. It can be any language, but here it is Polish.
> 
> Enjoy!

The wooden door thuds as you wrap your knuckles gently on it.

“Come in,” a bent over, small figure mumbles out absentmindedly from one of the dark wood, handcrafted hunks of furniture that is a desk. Overhead lights lighten up the otherwise dreary room, casting a light onto all of the great bookshelves lining the walls. Many books tower high into the heavenly heights of the ceiling, and you feel incredibly small in this roomy, open space. It's been a while since you've been here, and it's just as amazing as the last time you were here. 

The only sounds are coming from the ever present rustling of papers, an occasional word mumbled underneath a pondering breath, the clicking of the large clock hanging neatly on the wall, and a scratching of a pen. The muffled taping and pattering of your dress shoes on the carpet, also now making noise. You took a second at the door to gaze around a bit, soaking in the beautiful atmosphere. Now you are walking a relaxed stride towards the figure, who's only company at the moment is the lamp casting an orange light over their workspace and assortments of papers. 

Although your lengthy stride seems to be in no hurry, your hands feel clammy and the bouquet has to switch hands more than once so you can open and close your fist a few times, in an attempt to not make yourself freeze up. 

Why are you so nervous?  
Your newfound position after the war has been a drastic shift in atmosphere(for you, at the very least), but you still feel like the small fry, doing your best to not tread on toes. The formal respect you're given feels so, odd.  
The person you're approaching has proven many times they are friendly enough so then why….

Your leather-bound messenger’s bag is promptly laid on the table, opposite of just the person you've come to see. “Burning the Midnight oil a lot these days, eh Poland?”

-

Hearing the familiar voice, your head shoots up, the rest of your body soon following after. The reading glasses you usually wear for when you read for work or anything of that sort of vein, are briskly taken off and folded, set aside rather messily. A few mumbled words slip out of your voice to yourself, before you switch to English. “Hi-Hello, uh,” you clear your throat and try to casually as possible smoothen out your most likely wrinkled clothing. “Hi, ‘48.”

The taller, more filled out of the two of you smiles easily, and moves the square, wire-rimmed glasses up to fit on their face better. A bouquet of assorted flowers, carefully wrapped in brown paper is gingerly set on the desk, as they promptly begin to rummage around in the leather bound messengers back. A long, official looking envelope is pulled out rather quickly, “‘48” exclaiming a quiet, triumphant “aha!”  
The sleeves of their starched, white, long-sleeved dress shirt have been rolled up just past the elbows, better revealing an industrial-grade wrist watch on the right arm, and some hot elbows. In their two hands they loosely hold the long, thin package. 

“I don't want to waste any of your time, since I know how busy you are,” you try to organize your assortment of documents sprawled out on the table. Oh gosh, you look like such a mess. “But I uh, wanted to give this to you.” The envelope is handed to you, from across the length of the table, and you take it and examine it in your hands. “Again, thank you, so very much. You really,... honestly, I can't put it into words. Hopefully the letter is um, It shows just how greatly you touched me. I digress.” A hand waves about as they hurry to gather up their things as they talk.  
“Sorry, I know you'd rather be left to your own devices and such, so I'll be hitting the road now,” they close the bag and swing it onto their shoulder before spotting the assortment of flowers.  
“Oh! Uh, yeah these are for you. It's not much, especially compared to your amazing gift to me, but I uh,... Oh goodness, I'm rambling again. I'm sorry, I'll be going now, it was good seeing you!” The bundle of flowers is handed to you with quick, shaky hands the same way and is huge compared to your littler body. 

The whole time you weren't able to slip in even a quick phrase but now,  
“So soon?”  
USA stops after just a single step. They blink a few times, as if mildly confused. 

“I can, stay longer if you'd like.” The words seem to be uttered carefully, as if they don't know if they're overstepping a boundary. 

“Yes yes, come, sit down. Would you like coffee or tea? I have some hors d'oeuvres and sweets here as well, here, let me find them…” your guest is sat on a plush leather couch near one of the nooks of the library and they set the bag on their shoulder between their feet, and then decides the side of the couch would be a better resting spot. 

The snacks are fetched from a cabinet in the little area that serves as a kitchenette; it's a little room off of the library that you have used many times during late nights, storing non-perishables to nibble on during exhausting evening hours. “Coffee or tea?” They open their mouth but you promptly cut them off. “Ah yes yes, coffee.”

The two of you sit on the couches, refreshments on an end table in between the two of you, a lamp, similar to the one overlooking your mountain of paperwork, sits cheerfully between you.  
“So, hiding out in your library reservations, still” teasing obviously in their voice. 

You sigh. “Yes, it's the only way I can get any peace and quiet. Working at home is too... it's too stressful.”

‘48 hums a note while they sip from a cup of coffee. “‘Neighbors worryin’ ya’?”

You look into their eyes; eyes you trust. “Yes, in all honesty. It's becoming all so tense. I know I can't necessarily ‘hide’, but I hope minding my own business can help me. I fear it will only become worse with time.” A red-striped hand gently lays on your smaller one, which has reflexively tightened into a ball. Feeling their hand on yours loosens it and you feel a bit warm. 

“Are you really this worried?” Their voice is gentle, soft and it smooths out a few of your mind-bumps. 

“I,....  
“I don't know.  
“Maybe I'm overreacting. But, pasts can predict futures. I just want us to be happy. Every time we seem to get there, it's set on fire.” You stumble over the words in English, despite your fluency, and considered more than once just switching to Polish, as your friend speaks a good amount of the language and is practically audibly fluent. You dismiss the thought once again. 

They seem to be digesting your words, no matter how simple they are. It was, heartfelt, maybe that's why.  
Their hand lightly rubs yours that has completely relaxed by now, but threatens to tighten up again. 

Something out of the corner of your eye catches your attention. The bouquet that was given to you lies lonely and quietly there on the table, just where you left it. You stand up slowly, slipping your hand out from under your friend’s, and gather it in your arms.  
You sit down next to your friend on the long couch, setting yourself lightly, as if the bundle is a child. Your friend had watched you, you're guessing kind of subconsciously, from behind glasses. They look down at the flowers in your arms, a blank, clueless expression on their face.  
You stifle a chuckle. 

Their eyes shoot up to yours. “What's so funny?”

Ah, they sound so oblivious. “Nothing, nothing.” 

“Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” The smile you're trying to repress only widens. 

“Like _that_.” Their eyebrows furrow in confusion. It's a very comical, endearing face, you note. 

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh-” they huff and cross their arms over their patterned sweater vest. 

“Awww don't be mad,” you tease, poking them on the cheek. You can't help giggling like an idiot, just for a second. They shoot you a fake dirty look. You divert your eyes and stare down into the vast sea of colors and shades of flowers. 

Oh wow.  
That's a mighty fine lot of flowers. 

-

You're not _actually_ mad, but a bit of pride seems to have lodged itself into your sense of humor. “What do they mean?” A wistful voice almost whispers.  
They look up at you, eyes wide and moony, nothing but pure curiosity in their demeanor. “Do you know?”

“Oh- you mean the meanings of the flowers? I-I yeah, I know a little of what it means. Do you um, want me to show you…?” The stomach-flipping feeling you can easily get around them rears its ugly head. 

Thick eyelashes flutter a few times up at you, and your heart seems to beat faster and melt, simultaneously. A mild, rosy flush lines their cheeks, which you do not remember seeing when you first saw them less than 15 minutes ago.  
“Would you mind?” It's almost inaudible.  
The flowers are propped onto both of your legs and you pull one of the ends of the burlap cord holding the stems and paper together and gingerly lay out the plants.  
Their eyes light up when they see the poppies. A shadow of bitter-sweetness lines their lips, but the cluster of red, dainty flowers is picked up and is gently placed back where it was, after Poland examined them carefully. They mutter something along the lines of, ‘they're beautiful’, before leaning on your shoulder. 

“I'm sure you know that a bouquet of flowers can have many meanings, especially when it has more of them. Like it, has more to tell, in a sense.  
“These are ‘Gladiolus’s. The name is derived from the Latin word ‘Gladius’, which is uh, masculine and means ‘sword’. It represents things like a strong character, steadfastness, integrity, never giving up....”  
You go through each stemmed plant, giving a little bit of a boiled down definition of each, including a bit of backgrounds, since it seems they're soaking up every word you're saying. As time goes on, you give a bit more of an in depth analysis, encouraged by the fact that they don't seem to be tired of listening to you quite yet.  
They don't talk much, maybe a comment on the color or the shape or the meaning behind a flower, sometimes slipping in a joke about one of the more off-topic meanings you describe for a plant. 

“Does the color scheme you chose have a meaning? I think you mentioned something about that, right...?” awe still lines every word. 

“Oh, yes, it does. We decided to go with a more warm, red-pink color, and trying to hint more at a theme of courage and it being a uh, thank you gift. I mean, that's the intended meaning, even though you know, the definitions can be a bit vague.”

“So, did you pick these out yourself?” They tilt their head quizzically, dark eyelashes dancing as they blink. 

This conversation may become very embarrassing, very quickly. You choose your words carefully. “Well, for a bit of ‘em, yes. I consulted Netherlands for help with meanings and not making it look like a messy explosion of color. Oh, they provided me with a lot of them, as well. Really, I just helped a little; they have an amazing eye for these kind of frills and fringes.”

“I couldn't agree more.” The two of you had gone through most of the flowers, only a couple left to talk about. You see your friend eye the rest of the ones you haven't addressed, and you almost panic, your eyes for a second flashing to a yellow budded flower. You didn't think Holland would _actually_ put the dang thing in. Just, keep calm. Ignore it and pray nothing sees it. 

“Should I, find a vase for these? Do you think they would be OK on the desk? Or is there a specific place you want them?” Your words feel a bit more rushed than you meant them to. 

“Oh, yes, thank you-- I can show you where the China cabinet is.” Before you can bundle up the flowers again, “....Do you mind if I take a poppy?”

“Oh no, of course not!” They look at you, the most easy and mellow smile on their face. They hug you, despite the awkward angle, mumbling a thick “thank you; they're lovely” into the side of your chest.  
Your face physically becomes hotter but you push that aside as much as you can. 

“Where's the china?”

They pull away and stand up, the simple red, black centered flower in their hand. “Down that hall,” they point at a door, “will be a large cabinet filled with all kinds of stuff. Pick out a vase, any will do, and go through the second door on your left, as you turn back towards this door.” They walked with you to the door, and take the bundle from you. “Good luck, soldier.”  
They fake salute and you laugh. 

-

The scent of one of nature’s many beauties lingers around you, creating a cloud of bliss. The little poppy you picked up was delicately placed into the little pocket of your light red, not pink, sweater vest. You mess with the position of the flower a bit, trying to get into the perfect light and angle. Once you're satisfied with your assortment, you look down with the flowers in front of you on the large, wooden desk you've claimed as your own, unintentionally. 

A burst of color that contrasts the others catches your eye. Sure, there are many colors, so that's a bit hard to say, but this one is different, and you can't describe why. It's long stem branches out, lining up towards the heavens it sat under while the plant still was root bound, yellow buds sprouting from the branches. It's beautiful, but you don't remember ever hearing US telling you about it. You'll ask them when they get back. 

“How's this?” Just as you think of them, they appear from the kitchen door, a ceramic jug lined with deep cerulean buds and green stems, vines, and ivy held high. 

“Be careful! We’ll be in so much trouble if--  
“Oh! That's mine! I forgot I had a piece of my set here!”

“Sooo, it's okay to break it then? Since it's yours?”

“What? No! Just, get over here. Wait, did you get water?”

“Yep!” Their stride wavers for a second, their feet seeming to trip on air before recovering themself and hitting their stride again. Your heart stopped beating for a second. 

“You did that on purpose.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” A triumphant smirk is on their face as they reach the table and slide next to you. 

“You made my stomach hurt.” You punch their arm. 

“Ow! I'm sorry; I wasn't actually going to drop your pottery.” They rub the area you struck. 

“I was more worried about you, [stupid-adorable-idiot],” you mumble quietly to yourself. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

The two of you work at getting the cluster of stems into the mouth of the pitcher, and arrange them to look as pretty as they can. The yellow blossoms seize your attention again. As you open your mouth to inquire about them, “May I?” ‘48 gestures to your poppy in your pocket, which has shifted around a bit since you tucked it in. You blink a few times. They recognize your confusion. They search one of their dress pant pockets and pull out a little metal loop. “I always keep a safety pin on me; I could pin it so it stays in place, if you'd like.”

“Oh, yes, please,” The flower is taken out before it's put back into the pocket with the white crest of your eagle. 

“That is a cool pigeon, but I don't see why the crown was necessary.”

“Oh haha. That’s just because you’re used to being [‘Bald’] and defecting from monarchies.” They smile as they work, fingers nimbly and gently fixating the flower onto your breast, just above your beating heart. You felt a bit hot, despite how cold the stone building always is, feeling their hands having sent a surprisingly nice tingly feeling over you. Their lashes droop and their smile twists to the side, as if that'll help their hands work better. Once or twice they move their spectacles up so as to not fall off, just to have them threaten to slide off anyway. 

“Aaaaand, Voilà!” They stick their curled up hands on their hips and step back to examine their work. They tilt their head to the side a little, a thumb and index finger folding over their chin. 

Practically unconsciously, your right hand moves to the newly throned poppy and you gently lay your hand under where it pokes put into the light, for all to see. Underneath your woolen sweater vest that you love so much, your heart thumps rhythmically, drumming a song to attest that you are in fact, alive. The velvety petals brush against your fingers as you bring them higher. Pinned prettily above your heart, a reminder of death, it's colors being of blood and decay, is fixed upon the near-center of your living, breathing being.  
It becomes all too real to you again, as it seems to everyday, what the flower preaches to the world. A testament to those who lost, who was in a sense, everyone who was even remotely connected to the Great War, those who gained, like you, finally having a place to call your own that wasn't dominionated by some outside power, and those who learned. Everyone learned something, for better or worse. “Peace” has been fragile; brutal, open hostility being replaced with timid burn outs. Despite that, you look into the future, hoping for a bright and wonderful place, where everyone can be pleased. It's an unrealistic castle you've built, but maybe, just maybe,....

You search their eyes, pools of the same ambition for happiness and harmony.  
You close the gap between you two, taking their left hand, the one on the hip, gently in your two smaller hands.  
“Thank you.”

“Oh it's just a safety pin an’ a flower-”  
You laugh, and they flush a bit of blue, to your delight. 

-

“That's not what you meant, is it?”  
They shake their head, sleepy looking eyes seeming to stare into your very soul.  
Maybe it’s,.. not sleepiness..? Maybe, adoration? You shove the thought to the back of your mind, deciding now is not the time to entertain and play with fantasies. 

Their bi-colored head gazed at the flowers that sit on the table and takes one of their hands off of yours, to your disappointment, and fiddles with the placement of a pink carnation. Their nimble fingers stop after a bit, moving over to rest on the yellow flower you so wish you had shoved into your pocket.  
“I can't remember the meaning of this one; did we talk about it?”

Your face seems to go completely numb. 

Should you lie? It feels like the best way to get yourself out of this mess, but how will you feel after? You can't lie to your friend! You'd never be able to forgive yourself. This may be “the perfect opportunity”, but you didn't want for it to happen like this, if at all-

“I um,  
“I can't say.” That's not lying, is it?

A glint of mischief curls at their lips. “Oh come now! I know you're fibbing.” Their figure sways a tad, your hands swinging with their rhythmic movements.  
You avoid eye contact and try to stop your face from feeling as if it's on fire. “Please tell me?” They clutch your hand and take a half step forward, bringing your hand, as it's still in both of theirs, closer to them. Despite trying not to make eye contact, you glance in their direction on accident, and feel a wave of pressure crash over you. Inside your chest, your heart aches and you feel panic fuzzy up your senses. 

“No I-”

“Please? It's going to bother me so much if you don't.”

A flame of anger flares up inside you. “Why does it matter? I'm positive there's enough of the stupid flowers in there already for you to guess what it means.”

The step they took forward is retracted and their hands loosen. You immediately regret snapping at your friend. The look of hurt morphs into something a little different. “Fine. I'll just use the books here that can give me the answer, since you won't.” They flash you a cool look, as if they have leverage over you. “Or I'll just ask Holland.” 

Which apparently they do have. 

Your jaw clenches and they just blink slowly up at you.  
“Okay then.” Your words come out low and quiet. They furrow their eyebrows again. 

“Is, everything okay…?”

“Huh? Oh-  
“Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine.” You clear your throat, slip your hand out of theirs, and go to fetch your bag from beside the couch. 

“Are-are you sure?” They watch you slide the sash over your head, a bit of hurt and worry in their eyes, their right hand over their heart again, the other reaching out towards you slightly.  
You stand before them, a bit of feet away, trying to make yourself as straight as you can. 

“Yeah,” You point with your thumb to the door. “I'll be going, now.”  
Your back is turned to them, as you walk soberly to the door.  
“Thanks for the-”  
When you're just a couple feet from the great doors, you hear something behind you. It's quiet, and sounds like a hitching of breath when you hyperventilate, a sharp intake of air. You know the noise all too well. 

Turning around quickly, Poland stares back at you, hands covering their mouth, as if they didn't mean for it to slip out, tears gushing from their wide eyes.  
“I-  
“I'm sorry-  
“I didn't mean-” they mumble some unintelligible words that are definitely not English that you only vaguely understand due to its blubbered nature, and quickly try to wipe away the tears with their dress-shirt sleeve.  
Your bag is thrown off and before you know what you've done, Poland is clutching to the back of your vest, and your arms are holding them tightly to you.  
They cry into your chest, back heaving as you hold onto it, sobs muffled by your crushing embrace, telling the small bundle you're sorry and you didn't mean to hurt them. 

You let them cry out their feelings for a while. You remember when you were at a similar phase, stressed and pulled incredibly thin, trying to keep all that you fought for and won, together and as stable as you can.  
It's hard. Really hard.  
You also,....  
Acted rashly and feel that you need to at least owe them this small thing.

After a bit, the tears seem to stop spilling out like a waterfall but they still hold onto you, breathing rhythmically, occasionally hitching a breath or two. You mumble out simple orders and soothing in nature words occasionally, trying your best to comfort and share a kindred feeling with the small country in your arms. 

They pull away slowly, untangling their arms from yours, and folding their own arms into a tight personal hug. You're less than a foot apart and you gently touch their turned away face, guiding it to look into your own.  
“Now it's my turn to ask:” they seem to reluctantly make eye contact. “Are _you_ okay?”

One of their hands touches yours over their own face and they sigh before smiling a weary, but genuine smile up at you. “Yeah-Yeah I think I am.” They look down at themself.  
“I don't think the poppy made it, though.” You both laugh pathetically. 

“I'm sorry; I shouldn't have…”

“No,  
“No it's okay.” Their voice is hushed and slightly groggy sounding. “I'm just very, emotional. Sorry.” Their feet appear to become the most interesting thing on the whole planet. 

There's silence for a minute, as you make up your mind and your body decides to stop breathing, so you have to manually do it for it.  
“Do you, still want to know what it means?”

“The-the flower?” You nod and their eyes widen.  
“Yeah, I do.”

You exhale slowly, your heart thumping in your head, your jaw tight, your face tingly from feeling numbed.  
“It's an Acacia flower.  
“It means friendship,”

“All of this for that?” Their hands shoot into the air, exasperatedly. 

“I wasn't done.” They instantly become quiet again.  
“It also means ‘concealed love,” they look at you, face still wet and flushed from their episode, but blank and emotionless. You start to ramble.  
“Netherlands wasn't supposed to put that in there. I told them not to and we joked about it, but they did and I tried to get it out so the chance of you asking would be slim, even though Holland told me that you probably weren't going to see it and called you ‘oblivious’, because apparently I am not good at hiding feelings towards someone, not that you're clueless or anything. I think you're clever and smart and wonderful and adorable and--”  
They lean forward and grasp the knot in your tie that's tucked into your sweater vest, and yanks it toward themself. 

A little messily, but quickly and purposefully, their lips lock onto yours. You're caught off guard, still going down a rabbit trail in your mind of word vomit. For some reason, your mind tries to reason that this is just a method to try and get you to stop rambling.  
This can't be happening.  
How could it?  
Maybe it's a European thing? 

The kiss feels soft and warm, intoxicating and almost dream-like. You breathe them in, smelling pierogies and,... mainly just pierogies. Good pierogies, of course, but pierogies nonetheless. You finally unfreeze from your dumbfounded shock and quickly hold the sides of their face that's so close to yours. The two of you lean into each other, feet so close as well as your chests.  
They breathe, a bit of their voice slipping into it. 

You both let go of the other, their heels landing back on earth, your back straightening, and adjusting your glasses.  
“So um,  
“What does that mean?”  
They burst into joyous laughter, while throwing arms around your neck. They giggle into your collar and you're positive your face is flushed completely blue. 

“Thanks for the birthday card…” you weave your arms together over their back, rubbing a little with one of them.  
They look up into your face, their trademark magenta-red flushing their happy face. 

“Thanks for the help during the War™.”  
It's your turn to laugh and they giggle along with you. 

“No but,  
“Thank you, so much. It really means more than I could ever tell you.”

Eyes shimmering, this time maybe not from tears, they shake their head. “It was a small gift to show gratitude. I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't helped us as much as you did. I don't think I could ever repay you.”

“I'm so touched.” Your voice cracks with emotion but you don't care. They look at you, with something you've only dreamed they'd look upon you with. 

As the two of you gaze at each other, the clock tower rings twice.  
“Oh gosh, well, I have to go. Sorry.” You pull back from each other again, and you rush to get your bag again, they meet you at the door, pecking your cheek as you leave. They giggle as your face goes hot.  
“I-” The words feel odd coming from your mouth. “I love you.”

“I love me, too.” They cackle as you roll your eyes and shout “I LOVE YOU, TOO!” after you dash out the door. 

Your heart jumps in your chest, from joy and running out into the street. You feel your cheeks starting to hurt from grinning so wildly and get a comment or two on it as you pass a couple familiar faces. 

It turned out alright in the end. 

More than “alright”. 

You ask a confused USSR to smack you in the face to make sure you aren't dreaming. They look at you, dumbfounded confusion lining every crevice of their face, as you slide to a stop in front of the huge nation, and cheerily ask them to hit you. 

They do, and hard, just like you asked. 

After they do it, your hands shoot into the air, and you holler triumphantly, hug the huge, one-eyed communist who is like a biped bear, and run off, trotting backwards as you thank them for their help. 

They stare and wave, muttering something unintelligible underneath their breath. 

Maybe,

Just maybe,

This can work out. 

Epilogue

Paper crinkles and rustles as you open up the vanilla envelope. Your face is still hot, and your lips feel cold now. 

Carefully, slowly, you read the letter. 

The tall room fills with your laughter, that is honestly not as loud as it makes it sound. You can't help it; it's a beautiful letter, written in neat handwriting and it flows elegantly, but it's hard to well, not laugh. It's not a condescending, look-down-your-nose sort of laugh, more of a I'm-in-love-with-a-hopeless-romantic kind. The thank-you letter is obviously heartfelt and poetic, and of course very genuine, but that's just it: it's so genuine. It may be in that flowery, official like language of documents that plague every little crevice of your daily life and have become rather monotonous over time to hear and read, it trying to put on a mask of professionalIsm and officiality, but to you, every word resonates and shines though the mask that seems to just be a ‘bad’ cover up. It's heartfelt and reads like the most beautiful of poetry either of your distinct languages have to offer. 

Even still, it isn’t as “official” and “proper”, as someone can use to describe black and white print of governments and politics; usually these kind of “documents”, if you will, have an underlying fog of pride and self-preservation, but there feels to be nothing of the sort from the letter you received. 

You titter to yourself, holding the sides of your hot face with your own hands, where they had lain theirs. 

You sigh wistfully, probably looking like a complete and hopelessly romantic, thick headed idler, but you don't care. You haven't been truly ‘in love’ in a while, and you never imagined you'd be with the person you are. Well, maybe you did imagine, but you didn't think it was _possible_. 

Two contrasting scenes stand still on the same setting of your desk: bright, vibrant and passionate splashes of color from the bounds of petals, and the dull, plain and wooden industrial mountains of thin sheets of paper. Both are, if you choose to be a tad pessimistic, dead plants. But, one still retains the beauty of its primal life and broadcasts it for all who can to see its primal colors. Even in death, it holds a purpose. Even in death, it has a distinct role. Even in death, it’s still just as beautiful and magical.

Forcing yourself to tear your gaze from the vase, you look down at the papers and gather up a pen to resume your furious scratching. Sighing, your shoulders droop and you hover over the table and it's contents, knowing there is still work to be done. 

Despite the looming presence of constantly playing “catch up”, nothing can stop you from occasionally pausing and gazing at your present. You catch yourself smiling every time you do, and you don't mind it in the slightest.

You wake up, startled, your reading glasses crooked and awkwardly placed on your face. You wipe at the drool that leaked from your lips and lift your face from where it was laying on your arms. The papers are still scattered about, just where you left them, before you fell asleep. The fountain pen you use has fallen out of your hand and you don’t bother to pick it up again. A quick glance at the clock tells you it’s just dialed 4am. You yawn, your mind foggy and sleepy. 

Gathering your bag, you place it onto the chair you have claimed as your throne. A stack of documents are gathered and you flip through them, picking out a few here and there, organizing them into different designated piles, your foggy mind struggling to keep up.  
Before you know it, it’s 4:16 and you yawn as you close the huge oak doors to the archives. That could be a metaphor for you finally turning in for the night and locking away your thoughts for them to just be opened up yet again, tomorrow morning. 

The Acacia flower you have grown quite fond of lays loosely in your hand as you examine it. You hold it close to your face to catch its fragrance, a small bit of it brushing against your skin and tickling just above your lip. The flower becomes roommates with your precious, now crumpled poppy. You think they look perfect for each other: a damaged, worn down little flower of death, and a bright and cheery pop of sunshine. They remind you of a person or two you may know. 

You sigh sleepily to yourself as you day dream, or uh,... night? Dream….? 

Terminology is unimportant. You’re thinking about a specific someone in a dream-like manner. 

Despite your lack of energy left, your steps are light, and could even be called skipping, as you walk under the warm street lamps on the empty streets. The stars are invisible, as the light pollution blots out your fond, heavenly lights, but you know they are still there, so the thought does not bother you all too much. 

As you near your residence, a distinct scent wafts about and becomes stronger as you continue on your path. 

Your steps quicken. 

Fear seizes you, panic having little room but it drives your feet into a sprint. 

Blue smoke curls into the blank heavens and rises into nothingness. You slide to a stop, out of breath, inhaling some of the ash and cinders, clogging your airway and you choke and cough. Tears well up yet again in your eyes and your knees collapse on the hard pavement, in front of your blazing house. 

The more you cough, the more you choke and are unable to breathe. Fear engulfs you, turning your nerves to static and fuzz, to almost a point of hysteria.

This is not okay.

You are not okay. 

It hurts to breathe. 

Your throat is closing in on itself. 

The grass is charred and black. 

Are your neighbors okay? 

Has anyone been hurt?

What about your beloved pets?

Did your housekeeper make it out okay?

Your head hurts. 

Your knees are bleeding. 

Everything feels like it’s going numb. 

Tears are blurring your vision. 

Your vision is tunneling. 

Your hands are cold and shaking. 

Your face stings. 

Your face is on fire. 

Your house is on fire. 

_What happened?_

You struggle to your feet. 

You stare, in awe and bewilderment. 

Making up your mind to go in the fire and look for life, you breathe the toxic air in a deep breath, wipe the tears away with your now rolled up sleeve and raise the wet cloth to your mouth, and open your eyes. 

Something small, cold, and metallic clicks and presses gently into your lower back.  
Everything stops abruptly and you're paralyzed. All that your mind is able to conclude is: gun.  
A leather-feeling gloved hand gently brushes your right arm before trailing up to rest on the top of your shoulder. A voice purrs quietly and sweetly, like that of fruit that is just on the cusp of descending into rot, from right behind your left ear. 

“Morgen, Polen.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! You made it all the way through the end of the work!! Congrats!!  
> I know it's very unpolished(heh) and some of the things don't make exact sense :/ I apologize about that.  
> If the epilogue sort of bit feels too plot-hole-y, just pretend it doesn't exist <3
> 
> Anyway! I wanted to and was convinced to post this on valentine's day, because why not. This was sort of the first part of a two part series! The second part was sort of dropped, but I will be finishing it and releasing it on White Day, next month!  
> That will conclude this two-parter :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! I apologize this isn't very good...  
> Happy Valentine's Day!


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